


We can be human together

by verati



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, But not addressed, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings will be noticed, He’s just in denialllll, Hopeful Ending, Jon Snow Needs a Hug, Jon Snow POV, Jon loves Sansa, Parentage Reveal, Post Season 7, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verati/pseuds/verati
Summary: “Your queen,” Jon can hear Sansa’s derision at the title and how the snow snaps under her boots, “has been looking for you. If you didn’t want to be found you should’ve picked a better place to hide.”“Dany would never look for me here,” He touches the heart tree. His…auntdoesn’t believe in any gods. Perhaps she believes herself to be the only god worth worshipping.“Dany, is it? How…intimate.” She’s closer now. He knows she wants to say more on the matter. He doesn’t have to wait long.“Everyone is furious because they believe their king gave away his crown just as easily as he gave away his heart.” Her implied accusation, however false, stings.“If that’s what you think. Would you believe me if I told you otherwise? You never did trust me.”Did you sense the dragon blood in me? Is that why you never trusted me?Daenerys' arrival is overshadowed by the reveal of Jon’s parentage. After Bran discloses the secret Jon seeks solace in the godswood. His world is crumbling around him. He is angry at the world. At himself. Sansa finds him. They dance. They fight.





	We can be human together

**Author's Note:**

> That teaser really got me going. It’s a time for wolves!
> 
> In this fic I’m assuming that the parentage reveal happens the same day as Dany’s arrival.

_“You’re not Father’s son. You’re not our brother. You’re our cousin, and legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You are the heir to the Iron Throne.”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Your queen,” Jon can hear Sansa’s derision at the title and how the snow snaps under her boots, “has been looking for you. If you didn’t want to be found you should’ve picked a better place to hide.”

The godswood belongs to the Starks. The trees, stones and hot springs are Stark. Dragons would never feel welcome here.

_Is that why I’m here? To try and prove to myself that I’m more wolf than dragon? That I belong?_

“Dany would never look for me here,” He touches the heart tree. His… _aunt_ doesn’t believe in any gods. Sap flows from the carved face. Perhaps she believes herself to be the only god worth worshipping.

“Dany, is it? How…intimate.” She’s closer now. Jon continues to stare at the carved face. He knows she wants to say more on the matter. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Everyone is furious because they believe their king gave away his crown just as easily as he gave away his heart.” Her footfalls quicken with each word. Her implied accusation, however false, stings.

“If that’s what you think. Would you believe me if I told you otherwise? You never did trust me.” _Did you sense the dragon blood in me? Is that why you never trusted me?_

She’s nearly behind him. He can smell the faintest hint of lavender.

“We’re not _blind_ , Jon! The entire North knows the nature of your relationship. And the situation will be dire if word of your Targaryen parentage gets out.”

At the mention of his relationship with Dany he barks out a jagged laugh. His self hatred forces him to turn around and finally face her.

“You know _nothing_ ,” his mouth twists into a snarl, “about the ‘nature’ of my relationship with her.”

They stand there for seconds that feel like hours. He takes the time to look at her. Really look at her. Righteous fury tinges the apples of her cheeks and depeens the blue of her eyes. Her hair is windswept and the hem of her cloak is darkened by snow and mud. She’s radiant.

“Tell me. Did you fall into her bed before or after you bent the knee?”

Jon sidesteps the question and crushes her toes in the process. He knows this. This rhythm. This _dance_.

“The lords are breathing down my neck, asking questions I _should_ know the answers to. But I don’t because I only heard from you once during the entirety of your stay in the South.” She circles him and her boots mark each of her steps. “All I can do is smile and apologize because I, myself, am at a loss.”

Their ~~fights~~ discussions, as Sansa insists on calling them, have always been passionate in nature. Voices are raised, feet pace the floor, hands gesticulate. It’s a dance they have had ample opportunities to practice. In spite of all the spinning and turning it is their eyes that help guide them to the end of the reel; when the music fades they look at each other as equals. Partners.

That will not be the case tonight. His feet and mind are at odds with the music.

Sansa twirls around to ask if he really bent the knee to the mother of dragons, a woman who, if reports are to be believed, burns anyone who refuses to kneel. He takes two steps back and bumps into the heart tree.

“Talk to me, Jon. Say _something_. You were gone for weeks and the only message I received from you said that you had given the North away. Tell me that’s not true. Not after everything we went through to get it back.”

Jon remains silent.

On and on they fumble through the same steps until he simply stops dancing.

“I had to welcome her into our home while you just stood there in silence. I hoped you had a plan but it seems that…”

The music fades away. He can’t hear Sansa anymore. Instead, he only feels blood pulse in his ears. Jon rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to…to do something. Anything to make the dark and the silence—

“ **Be quiet!** ”

The stillness that follows is deafening. He opens his eyes. He had not noticed he had closed them. The sight that greets him changes the tone of their dance. Sansa looks stricken. _She’s afraid of me._

Sansa is leagues away from him, beyond his arm’s reach. Their dance has come to an impasse. Her face is a mask of moving shadows and dusklight. Her eyes are hidden by the shadows. _She is wearing her mask. She can’t even bring herself to look at me, I’ve scared her so._

“I’m sorry.” His knees creak as he takes a step towards her. “Sansa, I—“

The woman who stared down Ramsay on a field of bleeding grass shrinks away from Jon. She takes a step back and Jon follows her movement. Sansa’s braid swings behind her and catches the red of the evening sun. It reminds him of the view from atop of the Wall. The way the sun would reflect off the ice and be all the brighter for it. His eyes drink in the light and he feels himself burning.

“Look at me.”

Sansa lifts her eyes but she is unseeing. She’s looking through him, pretending he’s not there. He knows she’s pretending because he can’t bear to look at himself either. The air is thick with her hatred. He knows she hates him. He knows because he hates himself, too.

He’s had enough of dancing. He wants to _fight_.

Jon clenches his fist and digs his fingers into his palm. “I said, **_look. at. me!_** ”

There. Her eyes finally lock onto his. And Jon despises himself for it.

“I’m looking at you, Jon. What else do you want from me?” Her spine straightens just as she places a foot behind her for balance. This is not a dancer’s pose. “I would kneel but…you’re not a king anymore, are you?”

_I know you’re holding yourself back. There’s more. There has to be._

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the North.” _Fight me. Bare your teeth. Stop hiding behind your mask. **Fight. Me.**_

“Aye, you bent the knee, fell in love, and _fucked_ her for the North. Is that right?” Sansa bites out the question. She takes a step towards him. _**There** you are, she-wolf. Your mask is finally gone. _He says nothing in retaliation. He wants her to hurt him.

“No, that’s not how it happened. You fell in love, and _then_ you bent the knee. You gave the North away,” she laughs derisively. “And now everything the North lost to the South means _nothing_. Because in the end it will all return to how it was before,” her voice is a well-honed weapon. “With the North subservient to the whims of an uncaring South.”

She isn’t dancing anymore. She is a skilled warrior with fire in her hair. Each of her words is a thrust and a slash. Jon knows he should be able to defend and attack. He is a better fighter than he ever was a dancer.

“What made you do it? Was it her politics? Her dragons? Or did you find her so beautiful that you couldn’t help but throw our kingdom at her feet?”

He fails to parry.

“Did you ever even care about Robb and all the Northerners who _died_ for an independent North?”

He doesn’t raise a shield in self defense.

 _This, this is what I wanted._ He wants her angry. As angry as _he_ is. He waits for her to deliver the killing blow. Jon knows she will do it. He needs her to do it. He’s too much of a craven to say it himself.

_Come on. Say it. Say it. **Say it.**_

“Of course you wouldn’t care. You’re a _Targaryen_. What more could be expected of a treacherous dragon?”

When the last word leaves Sansa’s lips and sinks into his skin Jon crumbles to his knees in surrender. The truth is laid bare as Sansa pulls out her sword from his gaping flesh. Faintly, he hears Sansa gasp out his name.

_You’re right._

_I was never a Stark. I wasn’t even a Snow. I feel like a traitor. A thief. The North’s crown was never meant to be mine. They crowned me because they believed me a wolf. I’m nothing but an imposter. I’ll never be a Stark._

_I’ll always be alone._

His parentage, the Others, the dragon queen he brought to Winterfell’s gates…it’s all too much for a single man to bear. The darkness that he first encountered when he died comes to smother him once more. He’s gasping for air. His chest is collapsing.

Jon feels Sansa’s warmth before he sees her. She’s dropped to her knees as well. Her eyes are frantic and wide. “Jon. I’m sorry. I–I don’t mean it, Jon. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her arms wind themselves around him; her cloak meets his to create a cocoon.

“I didn’t mean it. I _don’t_ mean it. Jon.” He feels her lips press against his hair. “Oh, gods. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I’m _sorry_.”

Sansa holds him and Jon feels air slowly start to trickle down into his lungs. He feels her fingers weave themselves into his hair and guide his head to rest against her shoulder. Jon has never been touched like this. All his life he’s been known as the bastard of Winterfell. The only blemish on Ned Stark’s honor. Bastards are coarse, brutish, and foul. He’s been hit, spit at, and ignored. Stabbed by those he thought his brothers. Who would want to hold such a creature with tenderness and care? And yet, in spite of it all, Sansa is here on the snow-laden forest floor. Holding him. Murmuring sweet words to him.

Before fear of rejection can stop him, Jon lifts his arms to anchor himself to her. She doesn’t push him away but instead holds him even tighter.

And Jon lets himself cry. Everything he has been holding in for the past hour, months, _years_ , he finally lets free.

“Strong.” He gasps out the word. “I’ve been trying so hard to be strong…because if I fall I won’t be able to stand up again.”

The hand on his back moves in a soothing pattern as she listens to him unburden himself.

“Father, Robb, Rickon, even your Lady mother…” A sob tears its way out of his throat. He burrows his face deeper into the warmth of Sansa’s neck. “I felt each of their deaths. When you found me at Castle Black I was afraid of you…Of what you meant. No longer could I give up and run away. Because here you were. You became someone I could lose. You…to me you _are_ the North. If the North falls…”

He can’t even finish the sentence. His fears leave him shaking in her arms. _I can’t fail you. Not you, too. I promised. I promised to protect you._

The mere thought of losing her physically pains him. Before he learned of Bran and Arya’s survival, Sansa was all that tethered him to this world. He tries to compose himself and breathes in deeply. The scent of lavender he has come to associate with Sansa calms him. His tears have dampened the fur of her cloak. Embarrassed and ashamed he gently breaks away from her and leans back. His breeches are damp from kneeling for so long in the snow. Sansa’s hands fall away from him and onto her lap. The air feels colder with the space between them but he’s allowed himself to be weak for too long. He’s kept Sansa in the dark for too long.

“You deserve answers.”

Sansa looks uncertain and tense. She lets out a slow exhale. She’s waits for him to continue.

“I never bent the knee.”

They remain kneeling on the ground, face to face. Her eyebrows furrow and her eyes flicker with questions, confusion, and…hope? Cautiously, he reaches out and takes her hands in his. It makes him feel strong.

“She has no knowledge of our customs and traditions; I took advantage of that. I’m not proud of it but I did what I thought was best. And yes, I fell into her bed. I didn’t know she was…that I am…” Sansa nods at him to continue. There’s no judgement in her eyes.

“Technically, I pledged only myself to her. I didn’t give her the North.” _I couldn’t. It’s a part of me._ “I don’t know how long I can keep up the ruse. But we need her here for the war against the Others. If I have to stay by her side to ensure that, I will. As her bed warmer, her consort, or whatever she wants me to be. As long as you are safe…as long as all of you are safe…”

_When did everything become so complicated?_

Jon didn’t love Dany. He was attracted to her, it’s true. But his attraction didn’t blind him to her unreliability; he saw how easily she cast the Dornish and the Greyjoys aside. And he _needed_ to be assured of her aid. He knew that she treasured loyalty and adoration above everything else when he knocked on her cabin door. He knew there was no turning back once he crossed her doorway. She would be more amenable to him, yes. But he would also never be able to leave her without her seeing it as a betrayal. He had hoped for an amicable future with her but then Bran told them about his parentage, the Tarlys, the chaos she left across the Narrow Sea, her penchant for burning people alive… Mance’s face flashes before his mind’s eye. No. He could never love her now.

_It would be so much easier if I did._

His confession drains him. He feels numb. And Sansa…says nothing. Her lips are slightly parted. Her eyes are unfocused. Whatever emotion alights her face Jon cannot comprehend or identify.

She hates him.

The tension and rejection is unbearable so he retreats. Jon fought and he lost.

“Forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.” He releases her hands, stands, and stiffly nods. “Now you know everything.”

Before Jon can run away Sansa captures his hand. Even through the leather of her gloves he can feel her warmth. She rises from the snow without letting go. Once of a height with him her other hand cups his face.

_Do you hate me? Now that you know what I’ve done and who I am? Are you as disgusted as I am?_

“There’s nothing to forgive. Feeling pain, fear, anger… It’s not weakness. It’s what makes us human.” She brushes away one of his tears. He hadn’t realized he started crying again. Or maybe he never stopped. “Let me be there for you. You can be human with me…” Her voice hitches. “Maybe, maybe we can be human together.”

The world is blurry but even so he can see how Sansa is crying tears of her own. _We have both lost so much. She’s right. Maybe we can be human. Together._

Jon doesn’t give himself time to hesitate. He pulls Sansa by the waist and into his arms. Or perhaps he is the one to fall into hers. It doesn’t matter. _We’re together and that’s what matters. Thats all that matters._

“I’m sorry. For everything.” Her chest rises against his as she takes in a stuttering breath.

“You have nothing to—“

“Yes I do. I’m sorry for saying all those _vile_ things to you. They’re not true. Not a single one of them. I never doubted you, not really. I was just so… _angry_.” Her nails dig into his chest. “I saw how possessive she was of the North—of you. I feared I had lost everything to her. I…I feared I had lost you.”

Sansa trails off so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her. He turns his head to look at her. She looks pained as if it hurts to speak the words out loud. _We can be human together._ He clutches the fabric of her cloak and holds her tighter still, as if to reassure her of his presence. _You’ll never lose me. Never._

Sansa blinks the salt away from her eyes. Tears cling like beads of glass to her eyelashes.

“You’ve done your part, Jon. You’ve brought us an army and weapons. If you don’t love her…” She tilts her head to look at him. In her eyes lies blue steel. “She won’t take you away from the North. I don’t _care_ that your father was a dragon—your mother was a _wolf_. You’re part of the pack, Jon. Now it’s our turn to protect you.”

Sansa lifts her hands from his chest and grips his shoulders.

“You’re a Stark. You always have been and always will be. Always. And I…” she pauses, “I _trust_ you.”

Jon feels a tightness in his battered soul uncoil. All his life he’s wanted to be a Stark. And Sansa claims him as one just when he thinks the possibility is forever lost to him. She gives him a pack. She gives him her _trust_. This woman who has been betrayed at every turn is willing to trust once more. To trust _him_.

At a loss for words he kisses her forehead like he did many moons ago. Except it’s not the same. At all. This kiss lasts longer. Feels richer. Tastes sweeter.

When his lips leave her skin she says nothing. Sansa simply rests her head in the crook of his neck. For the first time since they left Winterfell as children, Jon hears Sansa hum a song. It’s quiet, more of a whisper, but it’s there. He can’t recall the name but he remembers the words. It’s not particularly joyful yet there’s hope in the rise and fall of her voice.

It feels natural when their embrace falls into an almost invisible cadence. Gently, their bodies sway in place; it is the simplest of dances. He once believed himself destined to live and die fighting. Never did he imagine himself dancing in Winterfell with a lady in his arms. Jon thinks he prefers dancing. Only with Sansa, though.

Something has shifted between them tonight. It’s new and he’s afraid of what he will find if he examines it too closely. What scares him is that he’s afraid in the first place.

 _She’s just Sansa. My Lady of Winterfell. My partner. ~~My cousin.~~ _He takes in another breath of lavender. _My **sister**. _

Night is fast approaching; their small reprieve from the rest of the world, and its problems, is almost at an end. Jon closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy their dance.

_She’s my sister._

_What more could she ever be?_

**Author's Note:**

> Phew. This was a headache to edit but I think I got it to somewhat resemble the idea I had tumbling around in my mind. What do you guys think?  
> Full disclosure: I was a bit nervous for this one since it’s the longest (and most...emotional?) Jon POV I’ve tried writing. 
> 
> Anyways! I also posted this one shot on my tumblr [@carbonitekisses](https://carbonitekisses.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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